Cracked
by Ms.Scar17
Summary: One night of love-making was all they needed to create this mess. Starfire has been gone for years and no one knows why. Nightwing resides in Jump City with the Titans and has been broken for years. When he finds out why Starfire left, it'll change them for good.


**Prologue: Foster Home**

I run, my shoes scraping the pavement, making the pebbles that were previously on the sidewalk rise up. Along with a bit of dust. Panting as I come close to my destination I make a right and I can see the Gotham Foster Home come into sight. The building looks like it could be blown away with the weakest of breezes.

The windows are boarded up by old pieces of wood, and the steps that lead up to the home, are all misplaced and out of shape. The neighborhood that it's located in is horrendous, so that just adds up to the effect, and the impression that this place has. The only thing that makes this scene look half decent is the full, yellowing moon in the background, the stars hanging from the blackened horizon.

The sound of police sirens could be heard from the other side of the city, and I rush to make it in the home before something happens. I jump up the steps skipping some and I open the door, closing it with a loud creak. As I lean against the door I wonder what horrors await me tonight. The sound of breaking glass pulls me away from the depths of my mind, and someone grabbing me by the throat and pushing me against the wall by the throat also brings me back to my cold, hard reality.

"Give me that, you little cunt." Mr. Steele takes the bottle away from me and sets it on the table next to him, not taking his hands away from my throat, though I am gasping for air. I can smell the alcohol in his breath as he breaths in and out roughly, feeling me from top to bottom, though not groping me fully, but just enough for me to be half-raped. I know to keep quiet, close my eyes and think about anything else but the present.

If I don't he'll take it out on the younger kids, and that's something that I try to avoid. He stops groping me after he decides that he's bored and releases me. I slide down to the floor and catch my breath. I felt the tears prickling the back of my eyes, but refused to let them fall. I was so sick of this. So sick of being manipulated and used as a slave.

But he was not going to see me broken. I take a deep breath and go upstairs before he decides that he wasn't done with me. The Foster Home was separated into regions according to age and gender. Since I was considered special, they decided to give me my own room on the second floor. As I go up the spiral staircase, I'm starting to feel thankful that I was alone in my "room". If you could even call it that.

The walls appeared to be caving in on themselves, and the only things that inhabited the space in the 'room', was a nasty, filthy old mattress that was probably picked up from the dump, a cracked mirror, and a wardrobe meant for a toddler. Not that it mattered anyway, cause I hardly had any clothes. The floor creaked as I walked through the cramped space, and I quickly set my bag down and flopped onto the mattress.

I had a window with cracked glass, the only thing that I could look out from. I turn around and lie on my side, as I listen to the car horns blaring, the police sirens sounding and the skyscrapers twinkling in the night. A bit of breeze comes in through my 'window' and I close my eyes as I feel the wind blow through my hair. My previously pounding heart is starting to relax, and I can feel my nausea ebbing away.

For me, this is the most peaceful moment I've had in a few years. For the longest time I've been bouncing from foster home to foster home, all of them kicking me out because I was different. I had an accident when I was younger, and they categorized me as being different from humanity. As if it wasn't bad enough that my guardians, whoever they are, decided to dump me here because they couldn't deal with me.

I have no medical records, and on my birth certificate it doesn't mention any names. All it says is A/N. I have no blood relatives, so I am really, truly alone. The thing that bothers me the most is not my living situation, not my abilities, but the fact that I have no one. If something ever happened to me no one would care. If I were to die the world would be celebrating instead of mourning.

Life likes to look me in the face and spit in it. I've been kicked down more times than I can remember. The world turned it's back on me, so I turn my back on the world. I have made it a goal never to show an ounce of emotion. I promised myself to never let them see me cry. I trust no one, keep to myself, and try not to get attached. It's the only way to ensure my survival.

Every morning I wake up and start evaluating what I may have to face, and try to keep myself prepared. No time for fun and games when you constantly have to look over your shoulder. Crime Alley is where I've been living for quite some time, and being shot seems like a walk in the park, an easy way out. Frequently, I find a way to escape for a day, and take a walk through the other, better parts of Gotham.

Anywhere is better than this prison. This concentration camp. No matter how hard I try to convince myself, I'm stuck here. No one wants a teenager, they always tell us that there's hope that we'll get adopted by a willing family, but that's all a lie. It's hard, sometimes to accept the fact that you're not wanted by anyone. All of the kids in the foster home wonder what they did wrong. We never get over that sickening feeling of abandonment.

I get up from the mattress and look at myself in the cracked mirror. I can see my long, ebony hair that falls to my waist, and my crystal blue eyes. I look paler than usual, and my face looks like it's been sucked inside a vacuum cleaner. My clothes consist of the same outfit. A black beanie, and a black tank top, with black leather pants and combat boots. I keep my full lips a shade of deep red, and I always have my jean jacket on.

The necklace that I wear has an emerald in the middle and is the only thing that I had when I was born. For some reason, I find it a comfort, like it's the only thing that's truly mine. I feel like this very mirror. Cracked on the inside, by the things that I've seen, and what I've suffered.

I look around this room and feel like the walls, caving in, old and tired. I'm so tired of everything. If I had the chance to completely change my life, I would.

I would be a completely different person. Anyone but Mar'i Anders.


End file.
